


Past The Smoke And Flames

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8218676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: The morning after the attack in Menegroth, Evranin speaks with Gereth.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> To Wave - Enjoy! :) 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, IdleLeaves!

The caws of seagulls came far overhead in the distance, clashing with the waves, a stark contrast to the rippling rush of flames against her ears before all the world had gone black. The breeze settled on her face, cool and gentle, with not a single harsh blast of ash and smoke and heat, save for the lingering warmth of the sun, rising far in the east. 

When Evranin opened her eyes, young Elwing slept beside her, a blanket draped over her tiny frame. A blanket had been provided for Evranin as well, though it was not terribly cold at this time of year. There were no beds or any other furnishings in this room; just themselves and this thin shield from the harsh world. 

The sunlight drifted through the open windows along with the breeze, the spring in full bloom, and when Evranin stood up she shivered from the gentle chill seeping into her thin bones.

It was still better than the alternative. 

The thick heavy sounds of _chop-chop_ drew her attention towards the window as images of axes, of shining metal—carnage, the calamity, the screams of her people, the pools of blood, the dead queen—flashed in her mind. She inched towards the window as she took deep, calming breaths. 

Looking out, she gasped when she glimpsed the elf from the other night just a few yards away. Steadying herself, Evranin checked on Elwing first, looked for injuries, and finding none, left the room, gingerly making her way out to the open field. 

The caws of the seagulls greeted her, and from this view she could better make out the shoreline. If she had to guess she would presume she was taken quite a distance away from her former home—the thought of _former_ brought pain and grief to her heart, and she pushed it out of her mind immediately. 

Evranin turned towards the other elf. She was at least double Evranin’s height and wide enough to fit at least two of her: made of pure muscle, a light in her eyes which must have reflected the fires of the smithy she normally worked in. She must have been up all morning chopping wood, stopping occasionally to wipe the sweat off her forehead. Quite handsome, Evranin had to confess, but that was beside the point. 

“Hey, you’re awake,” the other elf said with a wink. She bent over, grabbed a log with one hand that would have taken all of Evranin’s strength to roll over, set it on the flat-topped rock, and cleaved it in half with one swoop of her axe. 

“Where did you take us to?” Evranin demanded. 

“To safety,” the elf said with a little grunt, kicking the two halved pieces away. “I’m chopping wood for our new leader, Lord Círdan. Nice chap, he is. I am Gereth, by the way.” 

“ _Our_? You do not speak for us, Gereth!” Evranin said defiantly. “This is not Princess Elwing and my home! We are of the Sindar and you are of the Noldor.” 

Light flickered through Gereth’s eyes and she set the axe down. “Then you haven’t seen the parting gesture I gave ol’ Curufin and them back there. Noldo I may be, but my mother birthed me on these lands, and I consider you and that child more my kin than them. I saw them take away the other children. My conscience wouldn’t let me see another dead. The fact she was with a pretty maid like yourself was a bonus for my poor eyes.” 

Gasping, Evranin tried to look offended, especially with the way Gereth was smirking. She had none of the attitude of the other Noldo princes who had ravaged her city; scarcely spoke like them, but was equally as infuriating. 

Sitting down on one of the larger logs, Evranin closed her eyes and tried to remember past the smoke and flames, of shielding crying Elwing with all the protection her thin frame could provide the child, of being discovered by the towering elf, clad in pure armor, the fire dancing in her grey eyes. Evranin might have screamed for help—for one of her people or for Gereth’s mercy, she could not remember which one it was now—the smoke must have suffocated her then. But she vaguely remembered being lifted off the ground, both herself and Elwing, and thrown over Gereth’s shoulders before she charged through the burning wreckage like a mad bull. She had yelled something out, but Evranin did not recall the words nor to whom she yelled them. The world had gone black. 

“You carried us all the way here?” Evranin asked. 

Gereth nodded, grinning. “Last I heard, some of them Noldor didn’t make it. Wasn’t a smart attempt, attacking Menegroth.” 

“But the ones who survived…they will know you. Are you not now wanted for treason?” 

Gereth gave a shrug. “I chose to do what I decided was best. And like I said, Lord Círdan is my lord now. He will protect us.” 

Evranin nodded and turned towards the sea, catching glimpse of the prow of a ship. Somehow the sight of it brought hope into her heart. 

“Perhaps he will,” she said.


End file.
